


A mí me riza el viento, a mí me pinta el sol.

by yuridia



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, M/M, Post-The Death Cure, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:19:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3776956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuridia/pseuds/yuridia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas never considered himself an artist but he was used to blend everything with red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A mí me riza el viento, a mí me pinta el sol.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, this is so shitty. But if you read it, I'll love you forever.

_Paradise_ was ignorance – at least for Thomas.

He worked until exhaustion to avoid his own mind - built in an attempt to forget what he destroyed. He didn’t want to think; yet deep down, he knew that burying his memories wouldn’t be enough.

The armor he put together around himself had always been too big – there was a _boy_ inside and boys were never meant for war - but a warrior would always be a warrior, even at times of peace and he may tried to ignore or disguise it for the rest of his life here, but others could see it.

He tried to ignore them, too.

…

“What is _this_?” Thomas startled hearing Minho’s harsh question. He turned around only to be faced with a piece of paper. Old, crumpled, words barely visible – but recognizable enough. He didn’t remember where he left it since he last saw it. It had been so long ago, or at least he hoped for it. However that was not as important as his shame, not for hiding the damn thing but for Minho founding out.

As much as he tried to ignore, his memories came to slap him in the face. Embarrassed, he looked down at his shoes not able to confront his friend’s eyes.

“Did you do it?” The words were cold, no emotion on display yet they sounded as if Minho knew exactly who wrote the hopeless letter in his hand. In the bottom of his heart the last drop of hope to get away with this dried – he should have expected that Minho would remember _his_ writing. He often forgot about the fact that their friendship started two years before his arrival. Sufficient time to learn each other’s behaviors and _more_.

“ _Yes_.” The answer felt carried away by the wind, too fragile, too weak to even hold itself.

Minho’s hands fell to his sides in silence, appearing in Thomas vision – fists shaking with uncontrollable anger. He was clutching the letter in one of them, not showing any signs of letting it go. Thomas wouldn’t want him to throw it either – despite everything, it was a part of _him._

Minho’s legs moved quickly and it didn’t take him by surprise when he fell to the ground, yet his lungs still protested to the action and the air inside them left in a quiet puff. He didn’t open his eyes as he felt the paper make contact with his cheek; it hurt more than the actual punch.

 “You are both cowards.”

The situation was too familiar. The adjective seemed a déjà vu to his ears.

He wanted to vomit.

“Did you at least look at him in the eye, Thomas?” A bitter laugh followed the acid question turning the atmosphere more uncomfortable. “Or you klunked your pants right there like you are doing now?”

He tried to look up then but instead of Minho’s, he saw _his_ eyes. Not the lunatic ones – _his_ eyes pleading him once more.

He remembered.

And memories didn’t betray - that’s why he always escaped from them, that’s why he couldnt’t escape from them now.

He killed the sane _him_. He made a bullet go through _his_ head. Not the crack’s one.

 “What should I have done, Minho?” His trembling words ready to crumble showed the poor amount of control he had over his own body at the moment. He talked to escape his brain, which was a better torturer than the body above him; even with the hands around his neck. Minho’s movements stilled at the sound.

Thomas was properly sure that his next words would open a wound partially closed - pouring regrets he could never heal once more.  “Tell me.”

He just wanted to know. He wanted to suffer. Expecting Minho to give him all those pasts with no real future.

“I would’ve given him a proper goodbye party – dead cat and snacks if he was hungry.” Minho spited out and Thomas managed to not turn away his gaze. An unrecognizable sound came from his throat and he realized he never saw Minho like this –lips painted white and glassy eyes breaking as glass. For the first time, Minho was panicking. “Right before shooting both of his legs to drag him with us.”

“I wouldn’t kill him.” Thomas could see the veins of his neck and eyes grow like branches of a tree. “I would shoot myself rather than that.” However something appeared in his factions’ making Thomas thought that maybe after all, Minho was starting to realize the pain he had to go through. Maybe there was hope - for a part of him at least. “I guess that’s why he gave _this_ to you.”

“I’m sorry.” He weakly provided. “I’m sorry I give up on him.”

 “Do you hear yourself, Thomas? This isn’t about you. Newt is dead.” The name. Don’t mention the name. “Do you understand that?” Minho’s hands moved to his shoulders, shaking them - his head hit the ground following the motion. “ _He_ is _dead_. _And I can do nothing about it.”_

There was no change in Minho’s face expect of those – expression firm as a stone. Thomas blinked several times trying to understand the unnatural event happening in front of him – almost as a stone breaking and bleeding through the cracks.

Minho was a boy too, inside the heavy armor of a warrior and he once promised that he wouldn’t let him go through the same pain he felt when he watched Teresa died. He promised that the boy would be safe there. Yet he was here, feeling the drops of sorrow falling on his skin.

He laid there until the tears of his own eyes dried.

Later, in his bed, he slept throughout the night for the first time.

…

The next day, he worked without a break to eat. Brenda came at some point and made him drink water before asking what’s wrong.

He kissed her and said that everything was fine.

He didn’t mention that he couldn’t _ignore_ anymore – the armor he built fell apart when Minho cried and now he stood being the vulnerable skeleton that was underneath it.

No boy for him, just bones and dead making his dreams full of _red_.

Sometimes there was a piercing _blue_ or a shining _yellow_ – but mostly disturbing _red_ and he woke up crying every time those colors mixed.

…

One day, he decided to wash the colors away. He was never an artist anyway, he was a killer.

The sea was cold and the wind strong – making the waves hit Thomas unforgivingly. He felt the salt on his tongue – glad because it was different than the metallic taste of blood in his mind.

He walked into it, pathetic – trying to clean his mind in some physical way but stopped abruptly when Minho grabbed his shoulder, hand covered in dirt.

“I had to do something.” Those were the words directed at him after days of absence. His voice was different, not as warm as in the past though he didn’t deserve more. It could take years to make Minho trust him once again and they would be broken for a little more. For Thomas, it was okay because there was never a time when they weren’t broken – as sad as it sounded.

Minho was his leader again, as in the old days. They left the beach and walked for about 40 minutes. No one talked, and even breathing didn’t seem as a necessity any more. They didn’t stop until they saw a fresh cut piece of wood in an isolated area – he couldn’t detect any of the constructions or the Inmunes from there.

The field was empty except for the infinite grass covering the ground. There weren’t any trees, bushes, flowers or amazing waterfalls decorating the place but it was simply beautiful – maybe due to the way the sunlight hit the landscape making Thomas believe he was staring at something impossible to find there in Paradise. Gold.

His gaze fell once again in the only object in front of him.

_“You are here thanks to him.”_

The carved letters on the wood were uneven and almost childish – but the memorial wasn’t out of place. In the contrary, it was where it belonged. Golden, simple, beautiful – like _him_.

He couldn’t find a name, he guiltily realized. However, the one they gave him was never _his_ , just another thing to poorly replace what was taken away. It wasn’t enough with destroying every part of his life - a three years old life because that’s how much he ever really lived, how much he let him live.

He turned to look at Minho and found him rolling his eyes.

“Stop crying, shuckface, grow some balls.“ The cold sliding down his face dragged his attention at those words. In fact, he was crying. Minho kneeled, taking a sharp rock lying unnoticed to Thomas and worked on the wood as he watched the movements of his back.

“You are the only one left. Even if I hate your entire being right now, you’re the only one left.” Thomas never made a question, but he still got an answer. He didn’t understand what was that made him the only one – different from Frypan or Brenda; but if it was enough to put Minho at his side he wouldn’t analyze it too much. Even if it were no forgiveness, even if he meant an infinite resent in their friendship.

With no words coming out of Thomas mouth, Minho stood - clearly expecting no answer. A ‘bloody’ appeared next to the ‘are’.

“More like _him_.” He said, turning to Thomas with a little smirk that made him breathe easier. This was more than he could have ever asked for. “I buried the letter there.”

Minho threw the rock and soon after left the place.  Yet, Thomas couldn’t move. He touched the wood and tried not to think about how he left _his_ dead body and just ran away as fast as Minho just a few minutes ago. He couldn’t get out of his head the image of a putrefied blue body surrounded by _cracks_.

He stared at the gold around to change his thoughts.

Red.

_Remain mistakes._

Coughing, his lungs received the air he forgot thanks to the images. He busied himself to change them, making a similar piece for Teresa.

_You are here thanks to her._

Soon enough another one followed.

_You are here thanks to them._

When he got back with the others, he realized that he had ignored him once again.

…

He didn’t leave his bed that day – staring at his green wall because green was _safe_.

No one came to visit. People acting weird was a common occurrence in Paradise.

…

The following evening, someone interrupted the loneliness. He expected the feeling of soft curves and floral scent when a body appeared at his side, not hard muscles and sweaty skin filled of anxiousness.

“Why are you here?” He dared to ask.

“I don’t know.”

Despite their minds full of words, the silence felt as long as a decade.

“It was easier with him. I didn’t have to _talk_ he just simply understood.”

However, he didn’t dare to ask Minho why he was used to share a bed with _him_.

…

He didn’t expect Brenda at all the next day.

“He was going to shoot me. That was the last thing he said to me that he was going to shoot me if I didn’t leave.”

The night protected their hushed secrets and Thomas found out that _black_ was good too. He didn’t have to watch Minho’s eyes, their hate or anger towards him. Still, his voice stung his heart because there wasn’t something there. Something went missing forever.

And Minho never had the chance to say goodbye.

It took some time to make Thomas speak.

“Please.”

He didn’t know why he felt Minho looking at him differently afterwards.

…

He went to work, greeted his friends, and kissed Brenda. In his room, he touched Minho’s scars. He knew that _he_ traced his fingers there too because Minho stopped him abruptly at first, and then let him but sighing guiltily at every contact.

“We were always together but there had to be an exception. You got chased by cranks, yet you came back. I got struck by a shucking lightning bolt but I survived. Why _he_ had to be the exception?”

It wasn’t a surprise that he hadn’t the answer for the only question Minho asked since the field.

…

“I loved _him_.” Minho was the first to break the silence. “I still do.”

Thomas wondered if Minho regretted as much as him. If he regretted leaving him behind with the cranks, if he regretted not saying these words and Thomas was just a broken replacement.

He never really tried to put into words his feelings about _him_. _He_ wasn’t beautiful like Teresa. _He_ had crooked teeth - bit yellow if you stared too much like Thomas had - thin rosy lips, freckles splattered across his hollowed cheeks – seeming in need of some portion of food – tired yet focused brown eyes – wrongly being used to danger. However, Thomas favorite was _his_ hair: his golden locks always messy, always so bright.

Sarcastic, worried all the time, too sensible. _His_ moods were also terrible.

_Yeah, I love him._ He thought.

…

Minho and he fell in a routine. Never blending the luminous colors of the day – stranger faces, sun, easy talk, Brenda – with the dark shades of the nighttime – secrets, Minho, _him._

_Until,_

…

In the morning, he kissed Brenda.

 

In the night, he closed the door with key.

…

He left the door unlocked and Minho showed up with no question once again.

“After all we’ve said it felt –“ He tried to explain himself. “I was betraying _him_ somehow. I don’t know.” Brenda’s colors didn’t match, they never had. “It was wrong.”

“Then don’t do it, slinthead.”

…

He kissed Minho not long after.

“Something is missing.” They both knew it wasn’t something but someone. “Yet it doesn’t feel wrong.”

He wasn’t trying to make another painting and he wasn’t sketching either like with Brenda; this was him retouching his old art. Adding Minho’s colors but never replacing _him_.

“I know.”

…

“I love you.” Thomas wouldn’t waste his chances now. He had enough regrets.

He repeated the same words in a whisper.

“Shut up and go to sleep. He is not here.”

However, Minho hugged him and still left a space between them. 

…

When he woke up, _black_ eyes and _black_ hair surrounding him he confirmed that the color was safe and maybe as bright as the golden sun.

He smiled. They were _something_ now. Maybe incomplete, but something indeed.

…

A single flower grew in front of the craved wood and Thomas stared at it for what it felt like hours. It was white like the melancholic letter accompanying its roots, but he didn’t felt sad watching the color as in the past.

This white was _peace_.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted someone to punch Thomas for what he did and it ended up in something completely different. I think I know how the little shit got away with everything.


End file.
